


Ease My Mind

by goodiecornbread



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends Stevie Budd & David Rose, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Open Mic Night, Patrick Brewer is Gay, Patrick Brewer is a Troll, Patrick Brewer plays guitar, Slow Burn, the Blouse Barn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodiecornbread/pseuds/goodiecornbread
Summary: You came out of nowhereAnd you cut through all the noiseI make sense of the madnessWhen I listen to your voice-'Ease by Mind' by Ben Platt-+-+-+-David is the "Brand Manager" of the Music Barn record store in Elmdale. Wendy's nephew, Patrick, comes to stay for the summer, and his only goal seems to be making David's life miserable. What iswiththis guy and his guitar?!
Relationships: Alexis Rose & David Rose, David Rose & Johnny Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

David looked down again at his poncho-style, hand-knit sweater. Jared Leto had good taste, so surely this was acceptable. "I just want to make a lasting impression," he admitted, "So…"

"It's a job interview," Stevie retorted.

"For a _brand manager_ position," he corrected, "at an _upscale music venue_." 

"In _Elmdale_ ," his friend added.

"Okay, there are certain lies I tell myself, and if you're _any_ kind of a friend, you will let me _cling_ to those lies." He paused. "And, drive me to the interview."

"So is this like an 'either/or' type thing? Can I help you cling to the lies and _not_ drive you to Elmdale?"

"Okay, I'm going to change my _sweater,_ " David replied, turning towards the door, "and meet you at your car. So."

"It's like a poncho," Stevie called across the lobby, as David turned to give her a look and close the door.

__

__

-+-+-+-

Stevie pulled up and parked her car on the street. This was the wrong place. 

"No. Nope." David shook his head. "No."

"What?"

"Well this can't be be it," he explained. Stevie followed his gaze to the shop across the street, the small sign waving by the front door said 'Music Barn' in tacky, loopy letters.

"That's it," she told him, not trying to hide her smirk. "Can't you tell by how _upscale_ the _venue_ is?" 

"Well that's false advertising, I've been _in_ this place and there is _nothing_ about it that is 'upscale.' And it's not even a venue of any sort, just a trashy record store." 

"How did you being in this store ever happen?" 

"I was with Roland, we were shopping for Jocelyn," he said quickly and quietly. Stevie gave him a curious look. "It's a long, frightening story," he explained. He was _not_ going into the traumatic tale of the worn-out Melissa Manchester single. "Anyway, we can't be here, we need to go."

"Why, what's the big deal?"

"There's a solid chance I may have insulted the owner."

"Oh, that doesn't sound like something you'd do!" Stevie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"She has _very_ questionable taste. I may or may not have told her that to her face. So there's no point in _being_ here, you can start the car."

"I didn't drive all the way out here for you not to do this. Also, this is probably the only job in this town you'll ever be qualified for."

"Okay so do you want me to _lead_ with that, or hold it til the end? Keep it as a surprise?"

"Get out of my car, Rose."

-+-+-+-

Stevie checked the time on her phone. There's no way this interview was still going on after 35 minutes. The owner probably murdered him and was working on hiding the body. She sighed and got out of the car, crossing the street and walking in the front door. She was accosted by the style, or lack thereof. The front was crowded with tables of CDs and (for some reason) cassettes, and faded band posters with neon lettering. Every piece of furniture was hot pink or lime green, except for the dirty, dusty couches and chairs crammed around the edges of the store. She spotted David immediately, his eyes a millimeter from rolling completely back into his skull.

" _Hi,_ " she said, annoyed. "How much longer were you expecting me to wait in the car like some _hired_ chauffeur?"

"Yeah, I'm going to need you to do something for me," he sighed. She could barely hear him over the sound of terrible butt rock blasting from the speakers. 

"Like drive home without you?" 

"Uh, no. _Wendy_ has got me on a bit of a trial run with the customers. I'm going to need you to help me out by pretending you're _enjoying_ this conversation a little more than you are." She gave him a disgusted look on purpose. "I'm also gonna need you to buy a couple of CDs from me."

"A _couple_?"

"One," he corrected. " _A_ CD."

Stevie shook her head. She glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, was being eyed by a petition blonde woman with too many bracelets and necklaces. She averted her eyes, looking at the SALE! bin next to them. 

"What about this?" She asked, holding up a copy of Right Said Fred's greatest hits.

"That's not an option. That- no."

"But I have my sister's _wedding_ this weekend," her voice was raising in volume and octaves, "and I'm in charge of music!" Wendy looked up, interested.

"Okay, don't do that," David replied softly.

"Don't do what? Do you not _like_ the soothing sounds of 'I'm Too Sexy'?!" He sighed and walked away. " _Good_ recommendation, sir! This is also going to be a _smash_ at my husband's trial hearing. You know they let inmates pick a walk-out song?" David kept walking away, getting closer to his new boss. "He's got _great_ taste," Stevie added, louder. 

He got the job.

-+-+-+-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David meets Patrick. Patrick is kind of a passive-aggressive troll.

It had been three weeks of the Music Barn. Thankfully Wendy had _finally_ come to her senses about David's styling and atmosphere-creating abilities, so he spent the first thirty-six hour week de-cluttering the front of the store. His first task was to throw away all the posters that had clearly been torn from the pages of Tiger Beat and Teen People, but that left the ungodly avacado-colored walls bare and looking worse than before. This was going to be a challenge. Then he took it upon himself to find where the speaker system was controlled and turned off the god-aweful sound that was assaulting his ears. He would have to build a specific Spotify Playlist, but for now he choose a soft light jazz station.

By week two, he had gone through every sale bin and removed anything labeled less than $3.00 (which was surprisingly a lot) and any CD or tape in a damaged case. This may not be _his_ store, but he'll be damned if his name is even slightly attached to broken plastic and '99% Off' stickers.

Week three was starting out to be a challenge, and the most work yet. Wendy flitted in and out of the office, on loud phone calls and recommending terrible music to unsuspecting patrons. Thankfully the limited customers gave David plenty of time to plan what the new layout would be, and what kind of environment he would be curating.

"David!" Wendy called as she strutted out of her office. "David, I just got a call from Gerald's secretary and I have to go to Mandy's school again to talk her out of suspension. Can you keep the store for a while?"

David looked up from his notebook and glanced around the empty store. "Uh, yeah. I think I got it."

"Wonderful!" She threw a bulky pleather purse over her shoulder, causing her bangled to clank together on her arms. "Shouldn't be more than a few hours."

" _Hours?_ " he repeated after she left the store. Whatever, there was sure to be only a few people meander through for the rest of the day, so actually this will be more helpful. He pulled out his phone and pulled up his more inspiring playlist. As soon as Pat Benatar started belting, he instantly felt more relaxed and in his element. Time to get to work.

About ten songs later, and well into his groove of reorganizing, he was shoving a table by the front off to the side. Hopefully this week he could instill _some_ sort of cataloging system besides "Wendy's Picks" and "Other."

"Wow," came a voice from behind David, who jumped and turned, clutching his chest. His anger caught in his throat as soon as he saw the owner-- there stood a classically handsome man with short, almost-curly hair and soft brown eyes. He was wearing a boring pair of jeans that were working well for him, with an unbuttoned button down over a plain white tee-shirt. "Don't think I've ever seen this place without it's iconic BBMak poster taped to the wall."

"Yes, it's a national travesty," David replied, turning away from the stranger and his insane eye contact. Who just _looks_ people in the eye? He waited a second, faking interest in the box in front of him, before turning back to the man who was _still_ staring at him. "Can I _help_ you with something?" The man smirked.

"Nope." He finally broke eye contact to look around the store. "Just checking out what's new." 

David barked out a laugh. "Well, outside of a handful of Ontario's recent Top Hits, I can guarantee there isn't much thats _new_ around here."

The man stuck his hands in his pockets and turned back to David. "Oh, I don't know about that." He turned and wandered to the back of the store. David huffed in frustration. These hipsters could be _so_ pretentious.

-+-+-+-

After moving the tables, removing the matted and filthy rugs (he _really_ needed to get some of those rubber gloves from Stevie), and sweeping the perpetually dirty floors, David was actually beginning to work up a sweat. Thank God he was wearing a short-sleeved button-down today and not a sweater. He made his way to the middle of the store and perched on the stool behind the counter, pulling out his notebook. 

"Whatcha working on?" Suddenly the man was back, standing across the counter. David's heart nearly lept out of his Vetements. 

"If you _must_ know, I'm culminating a mood board for the store." He looked up, meeting the man's warm eyes with a steeley cool gaze. "What are _you_ doing?" 

The man shrugged. "Oh, you know. Culminating a mood board." 

Okay, what is this prick's deal? "We'll I'm sorry to inform you, but _loitering_ is not allowed in this store. So if you're not going to purchase something? I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The man smiled, the corners of his mouth somehow turning down. Not a snarky, rude smile, but a genuine smile of someone having a good time. David was _not_ having a good time. "No thanks," he replied, and walked back past a bookshelf.

David flipped his notebook shut and stormed off after the guy. He found him lounging in one of the dusty couches, feet propped up on a scuffed particleboard table, flipping through an old copy of Rolling Stone. 

"Are you planning on buying anything today?" He asked, trying to reel in his annoyance without much luck.

"Probably not," came the casual reply from the guy not even looking up from the magazine.

"Then I am going to have you leave now."

The man's barely-there eyebrows came together. "Can you do that?"

"Absolutely," David replied, standing a little taller and tugging the hem of his shirt to flatten any wrinkles. He hoped this guy wouldn't see through his bluff.

"Oh, so are you the owner?" He asked like he was genuinely interested. _Fuck._

"Um, _no_ ," David wavered, "but I _am_ the brand manager." He hoped his voice portrayed the confidence he didn't have.

"And what does that mean?"

"It means that I am here to create a specific environment for this store," he could feel his hands waving around the room. "I am generating an _immersive_ experience here at… uh..."

"The Music Barn," the man supplied. David sighed.

"Yes, that." 

"That is a big undertaking," he said honestly. "But you seem like the guy for the job."

David straightened again. "I am." He cleared his throat. "So, as long as you are not, um, _distracting,_ or _bothering_ anyone, I suppose you can stay."

"That's very generous of you," he said with another gravity-defying smile. "I promise not to distract or bother."

"Fine." David turned on his heel and strutted back to the counter.

-+-+-+-

David was so deep in his notebook and Pinterest app that he didn't notice the stranger come up to the counter again. 

"Almost time to close?" He asked, startling David for the third time today. How does he keep _doing_ that? _Why?!_

He looked at the time on his phone: 6:52. "Fuck," he muttered. He hadn't even started counting the till, which he could have easily done ady time in the past three hours as they'd had absolutely no customers. Well, outside of this guy. David looked up at him. "So...why are you still here?" 

As if waiting for her cue offstage, Wendy came barreling through the door. "Well _that_ was a hell of a day," she huffed, dropping her giant bag on top of David's notebook. He delicately pulled it out from underneath, and gave her a pointed look about the man standing there. She looked up as if she'd never noticed him until that moment. She grinned and reached a hand up to his cheek. "Patrick!"

Wait. Hold up. Wendy _knows_ this guy?! What the hell?!

"Hey, Aunt Wendy," he smiled. _Aunt_ Wendy? 

"So glad you boys have had a chance to make friends," she said wearily, grabbing her bag and walking around the counter towards her office. _Friends?_ Is that what she thinks was going on here? "I'm just gonna take a little break back here. David, you can close up?" The door shut before he could even respond.

"Ten bucks says she's pulling a pint of vodka from her purse right now." The stranger, Patrick, said. 

"There's already a half-empty fifth under her desk," David muttered. Then he snapped his head up. "Why didn't you _tell_ me you know Wendy?" He demanded.

Patrick shrugged. "You didn't ask."

"I should have _asked_ if Wendy was your aunt?" David spit out, and Patrick just smiled. Why did he keep _smiling_ like that?

"Goodnight, David," he replied, heading to the back door that lead to the stairs to Wendy's upstairs apartment. 

What the _fuck_ was that?!


	3. Chapter 3

"Mornin', David!"

Oh God, he's here again. David just takes off his sunglasses and raises his eyebrows in response. It was too early for this.

"Not so chatty today?" Patrick asked genuinely, but with a little tease in his voice. He was perched on the counter, reading from the back of some CD case. Today, he was wearing some faded band tee under his blue button-up, probably for some obscure band no one listened to but felt superior for having heard of them.

"Not this early," he managed to mumble, moving behind the counter to stash his bag and glasses and set down his coffee cup. He'd asked Twyla for an extra shot of espresso this morning.

"David it's almost 10am!"

"Exactly," he replied curtly. "I'm not really much of a morning person."

"Well I can see that," Patrick grinned, as if David's morning anguish was somehow hilarious. He ignored the man and unlocked the register, counting down the till. He knew the count would be right, he'd closed out last night.

Patrick hopped off the counter, obviously sensing that he was in the way, and walked off towards the back. Thank _God,_ he had too much to do today.

The sound of light music pulled David out of his morning haze. He stood up off the stool and wandered towards the back, following the tune. Sitting in the same spot as last night was Patrick, plucking on a guitar.

"What is that?"

"It's an acoustic guitar, David," he said with a light smile.

"I can see that. Why is it _here_?"

Patrick looked at the instrument in his lap. "Because I'm playing it?" He must have noticed the look David was giving him, because he continued. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no. No problem at all." Okay, he was Wendy's nephew, so he obviously figured he could get away with anything. _Musicians._ "I just didn't realize you'd be _lounging_ around here all day like a vagrant." Just because he couldn't kick him out didn't mean he had to be nice.

Patrick just let out a breathy laugh. "Guess you got me pegged. A musical vagabond."

David just rolled his eyes and moved back to the front counter. He was not awake enough for this guy. His muscles still ached from moving the heavy tables around yesterday, so he planned on spending the day creating a new organizational system. Obviously he'd start with classic divas, then modern queens. At least Wendy had plenty of those to work with for now, even if they were spread all over the store.

Wendy came down the stairs a little before eleven, head-to-toe in clashing animals prints. "David, dear, I have to run out to get that permit. Will you keep an eye on Patrick?"

"Do I really need to keep an eye on a grown man?" He asked. As if being summoned, said grown man appeared from behind the stacks, guitar still hanging from the strap around his shoulders.

"Permit for Saturday?" Patrick asked. What was Saturday?

"What is Saturday?"

"Our first Open Mic Night, of course!" Wendy waved her hand at him, plastic bracelets clanging. "You knew about this."

"I can guarantee that I did _not_ ," David gaped. "Why would we do… _that_?" He couldn't even say the words.

"We do them every summer," Patrick said plainly.

" _We_?"

Wendy laughed. "David, you're too much. I'm going to be late for my appointment. You boys be good!"

David turned back to Patrick as she walked out the front door. "We?" He asked again. Patrick furrowed his brow.

"Did Aunt Wendy not tell you about this?" He obviously got his answer by David's face. "We do a summer series every year. An Open Mic Night every Saturday til the end of August."

"Every year? Every _Saturday?!_ " This job was beginning to be a big mistake.

"She really didn't tell you anything about this, did she? Huh." He set his guitar on the counter. "Since high school, I've spent my summers out here with Aunt Wendy. We started doing some of these and they were actually pretty popular. Drew a pretty big crowd."

"So you and some of your fellow singer/songwriters would gather and perform poetry and songs? For one another?" That sounds like hell.

"That's right." Patrick smiled that sweetly, but there was something in his eye. "And sometimes the occasional improv troupe would stop by."

An icy hand clenched David's throat. He tugged at the collar of his sweater. "I'm feeling kind of ill."

"You can laugh, but an open mic night can be a surprising amount of fun." Who is he trying to convince?

"And what time is this fun?"

"We usually start after close." Close one.

"Well, thankfully I'm only scheduled til 8."

"I think Wendy might need you to stay over a few hours that night," Patrick preened.

"Oh god."

"Aw, c'mon." There was that shit-eating grin again. "Worst case scenario, you get a little overtime."

"No. Worst case scenario, I watch improv."

Patrick just laughed, picking up his guitar and walking away strumming. David groaned under his breath. What a smug little-- "Wait!" He leapt up from the stool and followed him around the corner. " _Where_ exactly is this performance taking place?" Patrick opened his mouth but David didn't let him speak yet. "And _don't_ say 'here at the store,' because I obviously know that."

"Obviously," Patrick replied, feigning a serious look. "It'll be in the back corner, by the red table." David knew the one, he had plans for that corner. "We pull the couch around and bring out some folding chairs." He shrugged, as if it were that easy.

"Um, I have a _very_ specific plan of what to do with that section of the store, and a performance area is _not_ a part of the aesthetic."

"It'll just be one night, David," he chuckled. "I think you'll survive."

"One night, _every week_ , for _months_!"

"I mean, we could leave it set up all summer?" David's jaw hung open. "Or… does that interfere with your aesthetic?"

He clamped his mouth shut, scowling at Patrick. Someone who wore discount jeans and a grungy band tee under an open button-up wouldn't know design or style if it followed him around like a groupie. No reason to waste any more energy on this guy than he already had. He had shit to do!

Walking back to where he'd left his organized mess, David wished he had a second cup of coffee.

"So what makes you an expert on aesthetic?" Patrick asked some time later. It's like he made his life goal to annoy.

David looked up with cool eyes. "What makes you spend your summer couch surfing with your aunt?" He shot back. Patrick just laughed.

"I asked you first," he said with a sly smile.

"Fine," David sighed. "If you _must_ know, I used to run a gallery in New York. It was literally my _life's_ work to create artistic environments that influence and inspire." He looked down and pretended to pick fuzz from his pants. He hadn't missed his gallery this much in a while. "I guess it's the only thing I'm really good at," he added quietly.

"I doubt that very much." David glared at him. "No, no!" Patrick put his hands up on defense. "I meant--"

Ugh. "Well? Your turn."

"Uh, well I guess it started when I was 15," Patrick started, staring off at nothing in particular. "My parents went on this big trip for their anniversary, and pawned me off here. Aunt Wendy took me in as cheap labor." He laughed at the memory. "And I just loved it. So I started coming back every summer."

"It must be nice to be able to just go wherever you want."

Patrick shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, I'm fortunate to have a pretty flexible schedule."

David nodded. Not really what he meant, but that must be nice too. Even when he had the world in his pocket, he was pretty tied to the gallery most of the year. Any getaway he had, besides his rescue missions to get Alexis, had to be scheduled months in advance.

"Okay, boys!" Came a call from the front door. "I'm back with the permit!"

"Joy," David muttered. Patrick chuckled under his breath. He reached out and took the paper from Wendy and looked it over.

"Guess it's time to make up some flyers!" He said with more enthusiasm than that sentence deserves. They disappeared into Wendy's office together chatting about the details of the upcoming nightmare, and David couldn't stand it. He carried the crate of CDs to the front table to work on the new display. By the time he had the divas perfectly arranged, Patrick was breezing past him.

"I'm running to the print shop," he explained, "and I'm grabbing tea for me and Wendy. You want something?"

"Um, sure, I guess." Patrick looked at him expectantly. "Can I get a caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners, with a sprinkle of cocoa powder?"

Patrick barked out a laugh. "No," he said and walked out the door. What a _dick_!

-+-+-+-

"So! Peppermint tea for you," Patrick handed Wendy a cup from his cardboard holder, "an Earl Grey for myself, and," he turned to David, "A regular coffee with 2 cream and 2 sugars." David delicately took the cup, giving the man an unimpressed look. "And here are the flyers!" He dropped a stack of black and white paper on the desk. David picked up the top piece with two fingers.

"This looks like it was made by a nine-year-old," he muttered as Wendy rushed into her office to answer her ever-ringing phone.

"Yeah, I couldn't afford an aesthetician on my budget." Patrick deadpanned. "I dropped some off at the coffee shop. Why don't you take a stack to leave at the Café?"

"Um, _no_ thank you." David dropped the flyer back in place.

"Aw, c'mon, David. Where's your sense of community?"

" _Not_ in the Greater Elms area," he scoffed. As if.

"Why not? This place is great." David gave him a skeptical look. Patrick smiled into his tea.

"It might be better than wherever _you're_ from," David replied, waving his hand towards the other man. "But I'm from NYC, so my standards are a little higher. "

"Aah, of course. The tight-knit community of downtown Manhattan."

"Okay, this is _really_ fun and everything, but I need to actually do some work around here." David pushed up from the counter, abandoning his untouched coffee, and walked off towards the back of the store. He didn't actually have something to do, but he had to get away from that smug asshole for a minute. It wasn't until he saw the red painted end table that he realized he was standing in the corner that would host the show. Ugh. This was the perfect area for a small listening alcove, with a few CD players and turntables for finding new music. He could practically picture the soundproof headphones arranged around stacks of records, inviting you to fall into the sound of vinyl. The acoustics were brilliant over here. Which is _probably_ why it was chosen for the open mic. Dammit.

"Aww," came a self-satisfied voice from behind him. "You came back here to set up for Saturday?"

Urgh!

-+-+-+-

"And! He went _out_ of his way to get me the _wrong_ coffee. Like, who does that?" David slammed his menu shut. He was too mad to look at the massive thing.

"Sounds like something I'd do," Stevie replied.

"Well, maybe," he corrected, "but you do it out of _love_."

"Do I?"

"Hi guys!" Twyla appeared from midair. "What can I get you?"

"Just fries," Stevie ordered for them. "A lot of fries."

"You got it!"

"Hey, Twyla." David reached in his bag and pulled out a small stack of paper. "The Music Barn is hosting some, um, local talent? Every weekend this summer. Any way we can leave these on the counter?" He handed her the flyers.

"Oh, wow! An Open Mic?!" Her eyes gleamed. "I'll have to start practicing some solo pieces!" She trotted away happily.

"Um, what the fuck?" Stevie raised one eyebrow at David. He looked down and picked at a scratch on the table.

"What?"

"I thought you said the Open Mic was stupid and that you refused to participate?"

"I am _not_ participating! I am merely… encouraging people to support local businesses."

"Mmhmm, sure." She gave him a knowing look. "You like him."

David's eyebrows went to his hairline, his mouth gaping open. "Absolutely not!" He shouted. "He is an obnoxious, self-assured, grunge-shirt wearing _musician!_ And not just artistically grungy, like _actually_ grungy. Like a Kurt Cobain wannabe."

"You told me _I_ dress like Kurt Cobain," Stevie countered.

"Well, you do."

"Sounds like you have a type."

David reared back again. "I do _not_ have a type. At least not _that_ type."

"You're right, your type is usually assholes. Oh wait!"

"Okay, enough from you."

"I'm just saying, you're talking an awful lot about someone you claim to not want to bone." She gave him a mischievous grin.

"Play in traffic."

-+-+-+-

"Where do stores buy products at wholesale?" David asked aloud, scrolling on the laptop.

"I don't know, Ebay?" Alexis offered, balancing on one foot to tie her running shoe.

"You can't buy _bulk_ from Ebay, Alexis," he replied sharply.

"Don't be such a big grumpy goat, David. You're getting frown lines." She popped in her ear buds and sauntered off as David reached for his forehead. He should probably get some new wrinkle cream soon.

"Dad?" He called, trying to keep his face as relaxed as possible. "Where did you get your stock for Rose Video?" His father walked through the doorway between their rooms, rubbing his hands together with excitement.

"Oh, wow, son! Asking your old man for business advice, huh?"

David tried to keep his eye roll to a minimum. "Just a question, Dad."

"Well let's see… we had a distributor who gave us a wholesale price for tapes. He'd fax us over a list of releases and we'd order a few copies of the big hits."

"Okay, nevermind. That doesn't really translate so…" David turned back to the screen.

"Maybe you can find something on the online?" Johnny offered.

"That's _literally_ what I'm doing."

"Have you tried WWW dot Ask Jeeves dot com?"

"Okay! I'm leaving." He closed the laptop and stood.

"Alright son!" His dad called after him as he left the motel room. "Let me know if I can do anything else to help!"

He stormed all the way to the office, where he breezed through the door and flopped on the couch.

"Have a seat," Stevie muttered from behind her book.

"No one will help me with my plans for the store," he grumbled.

"So you came to _me?_ "

He ignored her. "What kind of music would you buy?"

"I prefer illegal internet downloads." She glanced up at his glare. "But you know me. Grungy cool music, like Nirvana. Maybe some acoustic guitar?"

"Fuck off," he muttered.

"'Kay." She slammed her book shut and walked out from around the counter. She paused in front of the couch. "You coming?" David sighed and rolled off the couch and followed her outside. They paused at the utility closet so Stevie could pull out the cleaning cart, then carried on towards a room at the end of the building. She handed David a pair of blue gloves that he tentatively donned, standing as close to the door as possible.

"Can I keep these?" He asked, plucking at the rubber.

"Well, they go so well with your outfit," she replied, stripping the sheets from the bed.

"For cleaning at the _store_."

"You _clean_?" He hummed in response, not giving into her teasing. "Take 'em. I've got plenty."

"So kind."

-+-+-+-

When David arrived at the store the next morning, coffee in hand, Patrick was nowhere to be found. Thank _god_. He opened the til, taking careful count as he wasn't the one who closed. He turned on his playlist, flipped the sign to "open" and surveyed the room. Besides ordering some more music, he still had the whole back-half of the store to organize and catalog, not to mention the record corner/performance space. Obviously classic rock would go back there, along with the other vinyls, but he had to figure out the genres he was willing to supply. There would be no _techno_ here, thankyouverymuch.

He grabbed a plastic crate from behind the counter and headed towards the back, surprised to find the old couch free of any freeloading musicians. David had contemplated bringing a second coffee this morning, so Patrick would understand how _different_ a decent macchiato was from a basic brew, but changed his mind when he imagined the stupid grin he'd probably get. He'd probably hear "That's so thoughtful," when he was _really_ just trying to prove a point, which would make it all the more aggravating.

The box was almost full of music from the 60s (who organized their collection by _decade_ instead of _style_?!) when Wendy emerged from the back doorway to her apartment.

"David, I have to say. I was pretty unsure of you at first, but things are starting to look a little better around here."

David glanced around the store, his eyes landing on unfinished displays and dirty stacks of unorganized CDs. "Thank you?" He still could see _nothing_ but potential in here. "Um, I have been meaning to ask you where you order your stock from? I think we need to increase inventory in certain areas."

"Oh of course! I do it all online!" He followed her into the cramped and overcrowded office. She sat in her chair and brought the ancient desktop to life. David perched on the plastic chair across from her in painful silence as they waited for the boot-up. Finally she pulled up Internet Explorer ( _shudder_ ) and clacked the keys to bring up the right site. "Here you are! Just search for whatever and order what you think we need!" She vacated the cracked leather chair and David took her place. The old screen made the web page look discolored, and the database's format hadn't been updated since the late 90s, by the look of it. Luckily the selection was up-to-date, and even had some albums that were not yet released available for pre-order.

An hour, and a $745 order, later, David emerged from the office. He was satisfied with his selections, and headed back to where he left his box of CDs by the couch. On his way back to the front counter, he passed Wendy chatting with a frumpy middle-aged woman about the merits of Michael Bublé. _Pick your battles,_ he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent any outburts.

When he opened his eyes, he had to stop abruptly to keep from running over Patrick, who had just presented himself in front of the counter. Same jeans, same boring blue button-up, same boring band tee-- except this one David actually recognized.

"Morning, David!" He said with with wide smile, not moving from his place directly in the way. David made an exaggerated side-step to place the box on the counter. Patrick's eyes followed him with a knowing look. Such a fucking troll.

"It's almost noon," David replied in a snippy voice. _If he can give me shit when I come in at 10, I can give him shit for turning up at 12._ Patrick just laughed like it was an old joke between them.

"Whatcha working on today?"

"I am creating a new, more comprehensive, arrangement for the music in this store." He replied with an air of sophistication.

"So by genre like a normal store, instead of Wendy's favorite colors?" Patrick joked, and David snorted.

"Exactly."

"Okay, what section are you working with?" He asked. David gave him a quizzical look. "I am free this afternoon, I can help."

"You don't have to do that," David replied.

"I know, but I'd like to. Besides, we wouldn't want you to get dust on your Banana Republic sweater." He flash a mischievous grin.

"Excuse me!" David gaped. "This is _Thom Browne_!"

"Okay, David," was the only reply he got as Patrick walked away. David was still fuming when he returned with a tall stack of discs. "Where would you like these?" He asks casually.

"Just put them here," David snapped. Patrick quirked an eyebrow at him. "I've got it from here," he continued, "I don't need any help."

"Alright," Patrick replied, looking a little wounded. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure!" He went back to the box he was organizing, pulling out CDs and making stacks based on music style. He kept his eyes down until he was sure the other man had walked away. Then he kept working.

Wendy came up to the till with the customer she was disservicing with poor recommendations, and rang her up for her Bublé album. "Come back Saturday for Open Mic Night! It'll be a blast!" She waved until the woman left the store, then she turned back to David. "Did you get everything you needed?"

"For now, though there is a lot more that this store needs. A _lot_."

"Okay, I'll get you a company card so you can order a few things." She patted his shoulder and went back to her office. He smiled proudly to himself and took his now-empty box back to the shelf he was clearing. He'd almost forgotten that Patrick was even still here, having gotten used to the soft guitar music he hears all the time now.

"How are you not sick of that thing?" He asked, grabbing more albums for the box.

"Sick of… playing guitar?"

"Yeah. Like, isn't this like a vacation for you? Aren't you supposed to take a break from your job?"

"My job." Patrick's repeated.

"Fine, your _art_." Jesus, the superiority complex on this guy. "If I spent most of the year on tour, the last thing I'd want to do is go on vacation and _keep_ doing gigs."

"Right," he replied carefully. "Because I play some much when I'm on…"

"Tour," David finished. "Or 'on the road' or whatever you want to call it." Does he really expect everyone to just _fawn_ over him when talking about his music?

"I guess I just like to play," he shrugged and strummed. David rolled his eyes and picked up the now-full box, carrying it to the front. There's a reason he stopped dating musicians.

After a short time, the counter was full of stacks of CDs that were threatening to tumble, so David had to change his plan. He placed all of the funk and soul albums back into the crate and returned them to the back shelf.

"Done already?" Patrick asked with genuine surprise, setting down his guitar.

"Unfortunately not," David sighed. "I will still have to subcategorize these and arrange them by artist, but for now I have run out of room." The two of them made their way to the front.

"So what categories and subcategories are we working with?"

"Well, these are from the 1960s, so mostly classic rock and soul music here." He gestured towards his notebook that was open to a list. "There are the genres I plan on implementing." Patrick leaned on the desk and peered at the paper.

"No indie rock?"

"That will be under the broad umbrella of 'rock' with smaller subgroups."

"Hip hop?"

"Under 'rhythm and blues.'"

"Actually, it's history derives from jazz."

"Okay, then maybe jazz!" David's hands flailed with exasperation.

"Aw, no showtunes?"

"Absolutely not. Sondheim and Gershwin will be with other classical voices, but that's my limit."

"Seriously? You don't listen to any Broadway?"

David turned and crossed his arms. "Why, because I'm queer and from New York?" Patrick didn't respond. "Let's just say, I _was_ a fan until a very ill-fated few weeks with Taye and Idina, that sparked a _very_ controversial separation. I've been trying to keep my distance since. I _do_ usually look up the shows for whatever award I may be presenting at the Tony's, and spent a lovely weekend with Lea Michele a few years back, but we'd both rather forget that. Obviously I'm aware of the classics, my mother has had Andrew Lloyd Webber for dinner more times than I can count, but I don't know much post 2015."

After his monologue, he glanced up, but couldn't quite read Patrick's expression. Was he unimpressed, or thought he was lying? Or was a softer? Finally he broke. "Okay then, no showtunes." He started gathering the next stack to move back to the shelf.

It seemed likes minutes later, but was actually hours, when Stevie walked up and stood in front of them with her arms crossed. "So you were just going to let me sit in my car all night while you're in here flirting?" She demanded.

David gave her the finger. "Sit and spin, Stevie."

"Been there, done that," she replied. "I'm leaving in 5, with or without you." She left the store as quickly as she arrived. David silently started moving the stacks of CDs out of the way until tomorrow.

"Your girlfriend seems nice," Patrick said, failing to hide a smile.

"No. _Not_ my girlfriend." He visibly shuddered. "We once had a thing, but that-- no. Ew. No."

"Hm, I'm beginning to think she's _not_ your girlfriend."

"Ha. No, she's my friend, and my ride, and the reason I survived so long in Schitt's Creek."

"Well she seems nice," Patrick teased again.

"She's not." David hitched his bag over his elbow. "But you know what they say, 'you gotta be cruel to be kind.'"

Patrick's eyes grew wide. He looked down at his tee shirt. "You know Letters to Cleo?"

"Of course I do," he scoffed. "10 Things is arguably Julie Styles' most influential film."

He turned on his heel and walked out, this time with a smug smile on _his face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something you probably all already knew, but I just want to make a note:  
> "You gotta be cruel to be kind" is a lyric from 'Cruel to be Kind' by Letters to Cleo. They played a few songs in 10 Things I Hate About You.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday was turning out to be an infuriating day.

A woman came in shortly after David's shift began, and was asking his opinion on a gift for her mother. Her mother happened to be a fan of country music, which he didn't have a _great_ deal of experience with, but had been to enough Dollywood Foundation fundraisers to fake his way.

"If she is more interested in a female voice, might I recommend Loretta Lynn or Kitty Wells," he told her, suggesting classic artists he was more familiar with. "Of course there is Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard."

"No, she doesn't like those," was the only response the woman gave. She was so bland and frumpy, but he was _pretty_ sure it was a different frumpy woman than the one Wendy helped the other day.

"Okay, maybe Charley Pride? He basically changed what the world saw when they heard country music."

"Nah." _Seriously?!_

"Alright, why don't you tell _me_ what she likes?"

"She liked Billy Ray," she offered.

"I have Miley's newest album, if you want to keep it familial?" No way was he supplying any achey, brakey hearts.

"No, she's too loud."

"Yes, and she throws back ayahuasca better than any of us," he muttered. This conversation was going absolutely nowhere. "Anyone else?"

"No. Can you help me or not?" Was she getting snippy at _him_?

"I am _trying_ to help you!" He was also trying to keep his voice from getting too loud or shill.

"You're not very good at your job," she told him. "I'm going to FYE."

"I don't know what that is!" He called as she left the store. As soon as the door closed behind her, he swore. "Fuck!"

"Wow, David," came a self-righteous voice from behind him. He turned to see, of _course_ , Patrick. "You're so patient."

He was seeing red. " _She_ had no idea what she wanted! What do I do with that?!"

"Not sure," Patrick shrugged.

"Then why are you even _chastising_ me about it?!" He didn't even wait for a stupid response before breezing past the man and moving to the back of the store.

He was mad about the customer and her clearly convoluted idea of music, but what was the straw was how Patrick was acting. Why did he always have to be there, looming over him, ready to say something sardonic? What did he have against David that caused him to make his life a living hell? Wasn't working at the Music Barn for minimum wage (which is an immorally low amount) punishment enough for his years of being, well, _him_? He didn't need his own antagonist, too.

He'd spent the rest if his evening keeping to himself, and thankfully Patrick seemed to take the hint and give him space. After the till was counted down, David stepped into Wendy's office.

"Hey, just letting you know I'm out."

"David, why don't you come in a little later tomorrow? How about four?"

"Um, okay," he replied with an excited smile. "If you're sure?"

"Oh yeah, Patrick can run the register if we need him to." Wendy waved him off. "Besides, we'll need you to stay late for the Open Mic." David's face instantly fell. Of _course_ this would be the catch. He glanced over at Patrick, who'd been pushing the dry mop around the store, and that was a mistake. He looked like the cat that got the fucking cream. David just shot him a spiteful look and left the store as fast as he could.

"See you tomorrow night!" Patrick called cheerily.

-+-+-+-

When David arrived Friday afternoon, Patrick was standing behind the till.

"Hey, David," he said cheerily, and stepped out from around the counter. David eyed him suspiciously, but there didn't seem to be an ulterior motive. "It's been pretty slow today, so I hope you don't mind that I organized the rest of the 60s."

"By sub-genre or alphabetically?" This seemed incredulous.

"Uh, both? I went by the categories you'd mentioned. You'd gotten most of it done, I just finished the last few."

"Oh, um. Thank you."

"You're welcome, David." His expression was genuine, but there was no smile. "I'm going to head upstairs for a bit, so I'll see you later." David nodded in response.

Once Patrick was gone, he made his way back to the shelves he'd been working on temporarily filling. Sure enough, all the CDs from the crate on the little end table were now filed in to the stacks with little sticky notes attached to them.

He smiled to himself, because he knew no one could see him. Even when he was being nice, that guy couldn't help but be a little bit of a dick.

-+-+-+-

"David, there's room on the list if you want to perform tonight." David huffed and looked up at Patrick and his stupid teasing smile.

"Hilarious," he deadpanned.

"What are you playing?" Wendy asked, coming out of her office. "You should do the one you sang for Rachel a few years ago!"

Patrick glanced at David, the back at Wendy, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. What was _that_ look for?

"Uh, no. I'm gonna play something newer," he mumbled.

"Well, I'm sure it'll be good." Wendy reached up and patted his cheek in the way only she does.

"Rachel?" David asked when Wendy was out of earshot, trying to be nonchalant.

"Yeah, my high-school girlfriend. She came with me for a week one summer. Don't know why Aunt Wendy keeps bringing it up every year. She even wanted it at her wedding."

"Maybe she was inspired by your romantic serenade with an original love song?" David teased. Why was he pushing so hard on a topic Patrick was clearly trying to avoid?

"No," he huffed a laugh, "not a serenade, and _definitely_ not an original. I sang Maroon 5."

"Oof. How'd that go over?"

"She swooned, of course!" Patrick joked. "But no, I've never sung an original song about someone to them, not like that. And besides, she went home the next day and we broke up at the end of the summer." David didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't good at real feelings or normal relationships. He just hummed in response and nodded his head. "Where do you want these?" He asked, thankfully changing the subject and holding up the stack of Rock he'd been alphabetizing from the 70s area.

"Uh, you can stick them on the table over there," he gestured to their left. "I'm eventually going to have the Rock and subsequent divisions over there, but I'm not sure of the layout just yet," he motioned to the mostly-empty shelving to their right. Patrick nodded and did what he was instructed.

-+-+-+-

The closer it got to 8, the more people filed in, and suddenly there were more bodies at once than had been in the store all week. Maybe this wasn't the worst idea David had ever heard. But he would never admit that to Patrick.

Twyla walked in and waved at David, but as soon as she saw Patrick she ran up and threw her arms around his neck.

"Patrick! So good to see you!"

"Twyla, beautiful as ever," he beamed back at her. "Are you gonna sing?"

"Of course! Are you?"

"Absolutely. Maybe one of these weeks we can do a duet?"

Twyla looked like she won the lottery. "I would love that! Oh, there's Grace, I'd better go say hi." She beelined for a woman standing by the newly-arranged Solo Artists display.

Patrick looked at David and chuckled at his expression. "Twyla has been coming to these since the beginning. She has a beautiful voice."

"Yeah, she's in my mother's little singing troupe."

"No way, your mom is a Jazzagal?"

"It is so weird that you know that," David muttered.

"Well hey, should we get set up?"

"You want _me_ to move furniture?"

"Of course," Patrick teased, "you've got the artistic eye. You can make the whole thing Feng Shui."

" _That_ would take me days," David rolled his eyes. But he went anyway and helped Patrick move the couch to face the back corner where an amplifier and keyboard had appeared. They brought some folding chairs from a storage room in the back and placed them in a semicircle around the 'stage.' After it looked good enough, David retreated to the counter to look over his to-do list for the next week.

"David! _Look_ at this!"

He shuddered and looked up. "Alexis," he said through gritted teeth. "What are you doing here?"

She pushed back her hair. "Oh, something happened at the motel. Something about a toilet. Ugh, I don't know, but Stevie sent me here to pick you up."

"I have to stay late tonight?"

"Oh I know!" She laughed and waved a limp wrist towards the performance area. "I wanted to see the show! Plus I'm here to support Twy! I'm like her little _groupie_ person." She scrunched up her face and did a little shimmy with the last words.

"Ugh, fine."

"Who's the little Hottie-Boom-Bottie over there?" His gaze followed her pointed finger.

"Only the fucking _bane_ of my existence," he brooded.

"Oooooh," she said quietly.

" _Oh_? Oh what?"

Alexis' hands fluttered about. "Oh, nothing." She looked up and gave him a devilish grin. "Stevie just told me to keep an eye on him. And you."

"And me?! Wha--"

"Hey, everybody!" Patrick had taken the stage, wearing a different outfit than just minutes before. He was now wearing a very soft-looking green v-neck sweater, with a burgundy knit hat sitting far back on his head. All he needed was thick-rimmed glasses and he'd be the perfect hipster. "Thanks for coming out tonight for our first Open Mic Night of the year!" He was met by cheers and applause. "Shall I get us started?" Everyone cheered again. At least he had stage presence. He grabbed his guitar from where it was leaning against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. He plucked a few strings, and began to strum a [tune](https://youtu.be/F4dE4_CeavY).

_I should know who I am by now  
I walk, the record stands somehow  
Thinking of winter  
Your name is the splinter inside me  
While I wait _

David's eyebrows raised. Okay, this guy had a pretty decent voice. Probably to be expected, but there are a lot of tone-deaf back-up guitar players out there.

_I remember the sound  
Of your November downtown  
And I remember the truth  
A warm December with you  
But I don't have to make this mistake  
And I don't have to stay this way  
If only I would wait _

"Cute _and_ talented," Alexis purred into his ear. David swatted her away.

_The walk has all been cleared by now  
Your voice is all I hear somehow  
Calling out winter  
Your voice is the splinter inside me  
While I wait _

_I could have lost myself  
In rough blue waters in your eyes  
And I miss you still_

_I remember the sound  
Of your November downtown  
And I remember the truth  
A warm December with you  
But I don't have to make this mistake  
And I don't have to stay this way  
If only I would wait _

As he finished the song, David couldn't help but clap quietly with the crowd. He could see how Patrick made living doing this every day.

"Thank you so much," Patrick said. "Next up, we have Bob doing some beat poetry. C'mon up here, Bob!" He lead another round of applause as the mechanic did an awkward jog to the stage.

"So are you going to perform?" Alexis asked, slinking back up to her brother. "Read a little moody poem from your diary?" He glared at her.

"If I got up on that stage, I would have to go into Witness Protection."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She shrugged and picked at the ends of her hair. "It can be kind of fun to pretend to be someone else."

"Says the one who _literally_ had to hide from the Chicago Outfit." That was a terrible summer.

"Okay but that was like _one month_ , David! Only until the trial was over."

"You still had to wear one of Mom's wigs every day."

"Ugh! Don't remind me." Alexis shuddered. "She _still_ gives me shit any time she brings out Deirdre."

Bob took an awkward bow and stepped off the stage, and Patrick announced the next act, someone David didn't know. He turned back to his notebook, determined to use this time ignoring the mediocre talent and make some sketches for possible furniture to bring into the store. Every few seconds, though, his eyes would wander. No one one in particular, especially not to Patrick, who was standing stage right, intently watching the older woman performing. He had a fond smile on his face, clearly loving every minute of this. This was his happy place.

Whatever. Who cares if a halfway decent musician liked barely-okay local talent? Okay, he might be a little _more_ than halfway. But whatever. Stevie would totally be giving him shit if she could hear his thoughts right now.

Twyla was announced next, and Alexis cheered louder than anyone else in the room, running up to sit front-row. She sang a lovely rendition of a Taylor Swift classic, and Alexis swayed in her chair as if it were T.Swift herself. David clapped for her, too, after she finished.

One by one, people shuffled on stage like a parade of second-rate entertainment: musicians, singers, poets and stand-up 'comedians,' but thankfully no improv. After ushering off one last enthusiastic interpretive dancer, Patrick grabbed his guitar again.

"Alright, folks, looks like that's the end of our sign-up sheet for tonight. How about I play one more song to wrap things up?" The crowd cheered and he smiled. He really did have a great smile when it wasn't being used to taunt. Well, even then.

He [sang](https://youtu.be/QxpkHUxjhWs).

_All I have is cigarettes to offer you  
All you have is everything,  
I should have left then  
You kiss the pavement every afternoon when  
You see me leaving with smoke on my breath_

_All I have left of pieces of what we had  
Are tucked away with shameful images inside my head  
All I have left of pieces of what we had  
Are tucked away with the shameful images _

Despite being so beautiful and well performed, these were some heartbroken songs he was singing tonight. David wondered if they were newer songs from a recently lost love, or from farther back in his repertoire.

_  
All I have is a flannel shirt you gave to me  
All you have of mine you can keep,  
I don’t want it back now  
You kiss the pavement every afternoon when  
You see them leave and you pray they come back  
Not unlike me, and_

_All I have left of pieces of what we had  
Are tucked away with shameful images inside my head  
All I have left of pieces of what we had  
Are tucked away with the shameful images  
And I’m not coming home _

After the applause quieted, Patrick said, "Thank you so much for coming out, everybody. Come back next week, same time, same place." The crowd started filing out, Wendy holding the door and personally saying goodbye to everyone.

"I'm gonna go talk with Twy, meet you at the car!" Alexis waved as David headed to the back to start folding up chairs while Patrick packed up the microphone and speaker.

"So? What did you think?"

David turned away from him to move some chairs. "It was fine," he said nonchalantly.

"What was that, David? Couldn't hear you behind your fight to keep your enjoyment at bay." David turned, only to be met with that same smug smile. The one he hated. Mostly hated.

"Okay, fine. It was _acceptable,_ for the untrained talent of the greater Elms area."

"How much did it hurt to say that?"

"A lot."

"Well I'm really glad you had fun, David."

He looked up and raised a hand in defense. "Was that what I said?"

Patrick stepped up and put his hand on David's shoulder. "I didn't have to say it. I can see it in your eyes."

"Can you see how _annoying_ you are in my eyes?" He countered. Patrick just laughed and carried the amp to the back store room.

Once everything was back in its place, Wendy counted the till while David ran the dry mop over the floor.

"I can finish that," Patrick offered. David looked at him skeptically.

"I would ask if you're sure, but I want to leave so…" he handed over the mop.

"Oh, David!" Wendy called as he reached for his bag. She ran into her office and emerged with an envelope. "Here's a company card for you, so you can order some more stuff for the store." David reached out delicately

"Wow, okay," he said softly.

"I can't deny you have style," she told him, "might as well let you do something with it."

"Thanks, Wendy." He stuck the envelope in his bag, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I want to preface this by mentioning that Patrick never said that _he_ wrote the songs that he performs. David just assumes that he did.
> 
> The songs Patrick performed in this chapter are:
> 
> "Winter," by Joshua Radin  
> And  
> "Finders Keepers," by Shortly


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this universe, Jake has already happened.
> 
> Wibbley wobbley times wimey stuff.

David had never been more excited to do work on his day off than he was today.

"I've never seen you this dedicated to your career," Stevie muttered from her Solitaire game.

"First, _not_ a career." David shuddered to think about it. "Second, I'm literally _shopping_."

"Shopping for your job."

"But shopping nonetheless!" He opened another tab and searched for accent pieces.

"And what does Patrick think about it?"

He sat up straighter on the old couch and glared at her over the laptop. She had the audacity to not even look at him.

"How would I know?" She shrugged. Ugh, she was the worst. "It doesn't matter anyway, he doesn't even _actually_ work there, and he'll be gone in a few months anyway."

"Bummer."

" _Why_ is it a bummer?"

"Because he gets under your skin." She looked over him and smiled. "I like that."

"You like that he harasses me, all day, at my only sanctuary from you?"

"Exactly." She turned back to her computer. "I can't be everywhere."

"I hate you," he mumbled.

"Good."

-+-+-+-

When Stevie dropped him off Monday afternoon, David was in the best mood he’d been in all week. He’d put in the last of the furniture orders last night, which should arrive before the weekend, and could finally start creating the ideal layout for the inside of the store. The display fixtures would line the walls at the front of the store, with tiered tables flanking the checkout counter for larger arrangements. The back corners would have to wait until after the summer to complete, because he’d be damned if his hard work gets rearranged every week to make room for _folding chairs._

His plan for the next few days was to go through the rest of the decades as quickly as possible, in order to have everything ready to set-up once the furniture arrives. Luckily (if you can call it lucky) there were no customers in the store, so David was able to get right to work finishing up the 70s. That decade was mostly disco, anyway, which would go _right_ into the clearance bin. Which was another thing he was ready to nix.

Patrick worked side-by-side with him, dividing up the albums by genre, while David wondered when the sarcasm and rudeness would start.

“I could drive you home sometimes, if you'd like,” he said casually, not even looking up. “Like, if Stevie is busy again or something.”

What was he insinuating? That he doesn’t have anyone else to rely on? “That is not going to be necessary, Stevie is never busy.”

“She was busy on Saturday.” There was a bit of a tease in his voice.

“Okay that was an anomaly.” David didn’t know why, but he felt the need to explain himself. “And besides, I plan on getting my own car soon, if my family stops pilfering every paycheck I get.”

“Pilfering?”

“Okay, maybe that was a bad choice of words,” he backtracks. “But like a few weeks ago I had to pay our weekly tab at the cafe because my dad wasted all his money on some fancy milk that he ended up having to dump out, and that left me with, like, $37. And before that, uh, Stevie needed an exterminator for one of the rooms and the motel couldn't afford it, so I had to hire some beekeeper from Elm Glen. Should have just let Roland go in there with a can of Raid but apparently he's allergic? Or something? And then one of my mom's wigs got some kind of mildew on it and she flipped out so I had to find an organic goat milk shampoo from a farm East of town.” He took a deep breath and glanced up, expecting a look of disgust or amusement, but instead Patrick was looking at him with… admiration?

“That's a really great thing that you do for your family, David.”

“Well I wouldn't have to if they'd realize that we're poor and stop trying to spend money we don't have and then need me to bail them out.” They may have come out a little snippy, but he didn’t like the thought of Patrick seeing past his walls just yet.

“But you _don't_ have to bail them out.”

Excuse me? “Yes I do. None of them would admit it but they rely on me.” Okay, that sounded arrogant but it was true. Besides Johnny’s attempts at being Schitt’s Creek’s newest (and only) business mogul, David was surprisingly the most responsible Rose. First time for everything.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Patrick said honestly. “I really think you’re a good guy.”

“Thanks,” he replied, still unsure of how to take Patrick’s sudden sincerity. So instead, he carried off his organized stack to the shelf in back. When in doubt, run away.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet, outside of Wendy’s loud office phone calls (who was she always talking to?), because Patrick disappeared into the upstairs apartment for a few hours. It was nice to not have to feel on-edge, like he may be ridiculed at every turn, but he found himself wishing for a little company. He was probably avoiding him, keeping away from the spoiled rich kid who complained about helping his family from financial binds.

“How’s it coming?” Patrick asked when he came back downstairs an hour before closing.

“The 70s are dead,” David told him. “On to the 80s now, which is where my musical prowess _really_ begins to shine.” He smiled a little smugly to himself.

Just then, Stevie stormed in through the door.

“Hey, Sunshine!” Patrick grinned at her. They’d met a few times over the past week, and he seemed to love to push her buttons as much as he pushed David’s. He was surprised that she hadn’t set him on fire yet.

“Fuck off, Brewer,” she muttered, moving closer to David.

“You’re early,” he told her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve got some stuff to do tonight, so I’m dropping off my car so you can drive your _own_ ass home.” She held out her keys, but he pulled back as if it were a spider.

“What’s going on?” He asked with a side-eye.

“ _Nothing_!” she exasperated.

“Then why won’t you need your car?”

“A friend is giving me a ride,” she replied.

“You don’t _have_ other friends,” he sneered.

“Just because your personalities take up most of my time doesn’t mean I don’t have other friends.”

“I don’t trust you,” David told her, “but I’ll take it.” He snatched the keys from her hand as the bell over the door rang.

“Hey, Pony,” came a strong voice. “Ready to go?”

Jake. What the hell was Jake doing here? Did he just call her...Pony?

“What are you doing?” Stevie said in a rushed voice. “I said I would meet you outside.”

“I thought I’d come in and say hi to your friends.” He looked up and locked eyes with David, who felt caught in the middle.

“David,” Jake said in a deep, breathy, _sexy_ voice. “It’s been a while.” He stepped forward and planted a kiss on his lips. Jake. Just kissed him. Right in the middle of the store. “You look good.” He pointed to Patrick. Oh my god, Patrick is standing there. “Whose this?”

“This is… it’s…” why was his brain not working?!

“Patrick.” He stuck out his hand, which Jake did not take. “And you are?”

“Picking up Stevie.”

“Yeah,” Stevie said quickly, “we’re gonna go, so.”

“So,” David added, “you and _Pony_ are--- what do you have planned for tonight?”

“Well, it’s date night,” Jake replied. Oh, she was so dead.

“So I take it you two are still--”

“Seeing each other,” Stevie finished. “Yes, as it turns out, we are.”

Jake motioned between them. “After we all broke up, Stevie came over to end things officially and it just didn’t stick.”

“Just didn’t stick,” David repeated, giving his friend a look.

“Okay, we’re gonna go,” she declared. “Just leave my car at the motel, I’ll get a ride in the morning.”

“Oh I’m sure you’ll do plenty of riding, Pony.”

She grabbed Jake’s hand and led him out. “Fuck you!” she called over her shoulder.

“I think that’s his job!” he called back. As soon as they were gone, he spun to look at Paltrick with wide eyes.

“So you all…?” he asked with an amused glint in his eye.

“No, that’s where you’re wrong. _I_ dated Jake, and it turns out that Stevie was _also_ dating Jake. We almost all… but I said no. Because Stevie and I agreed that that would be a bad idea, but it appears that I’m the only one who held up my end of the deal. Because she’s a horny bitch.”

“And you’re upset about that?”

“No!” Okay, this was looking bad. “I don’t want _any_ of that,” he motioned to the door. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Patrick nodded, not trying to hide his smile. “I get it,” he teased. “He's cute.”

Wait, what?! “You think _Jake_ is cute?”

“I mean, is not really my type, but--” Obviously, because he’s not a woman.

“Oh yeah?” David asked, nonchalant. “So what is your type?

He cocked his head and grinned. “What do you think is my type? Artistic and moody? Tall, dark and handsome?”

“You think you're so cute when you're smug,” David spat out. Patrick’s eyebrows rose in fake concern.

“Is that your type, David? Cute and smug?”

“Okay,” he sneered and strutted to the back with a box.

-+-+-+-

Stevie still wasn't at the motel by the time they usually left for his morning shift, so David decided to drive himself. He texted her while waiting for Twyla to make his macchiato.

[David Rose]  
Took the car to work

[Stevie Budd]  
better b gassed up n clean when u bring it back  
tell patrick hi 4 me

[David Rose]  
Tell Jake you need another round to improve your mood

[Stevie Budd]  
🖕

[David Rose]  
🐎

He got to the store with 5 minutes to spare, and thankfully found it empty. Any time was too early for Patrick's mockery, especially before 10am.

He started boxing up albums from the 80s shelf, bringing them to the front to organize. It was basically Heaven, sifting through diva after diva, listening to love ballad after ballad from his specially constructed Spotify playlist.

He couldn't wait to create the display that would sit to the left of the counter, with Pat and Paula and Cyndi and Whitney. He was so in his zone, feeling the music and moving with the beat, that when he turned around to get another box-full, he almost died on the spot: Patrick was standing there, arms crossed with a _very_ entertained expression on his face.

David immediately stood up straight and brought a hand up to fix his hair.

"Nice moves," Patrick said with an upside-down smile.

"You know, you would be a _lot_ more appreciated if you were helping instead of judging."

He put his hands up in defense. "Not judging," he laughed, "just admiring." David glared at him. "But I can't help today, I've got a lunch meeting across town." He stepped closer and clapped a hand on David's shoulder, which made him flinch. "I look forward to the encore when I return."

"There will be _no_ encore!" He sputtered.

"Then act two?" Patrick replied as he stepped outside.

David turned down the music and fixed his hair again. " _Asshole,_ " he hissed to himself.

-+-+-+-

Wendy's 80s collection was the largest of all the decades, but it was also the one David was most familiar with. He could organize it in his sleep. Which almost felt like what he was doing, since not a single customer had come in and his caffeine high was wearing off.

When the bell rang over the door David practically lept at the chance to interact to another human. Wendy's schedule usually only overlapped an hour or so with his own, and in the quiet he found himself wishing he had someone to talk to. Even if that someone was a pompous ass.

Speaking of…

"Hey, David," Patrick entered with a beautiful woman's arm looped through his. "I'd like you to meet Anna."

"Oh, uh, hey Anna."

"Hey David. It's been a while." Her awkwardness mirrored his own.

"You two know each other?" Patrick pointed between the two of them.

"Uh, yeah…" how much does she want him to know?

"Patrick, you remember my ex, Stephen?" She took the lead. "Well last fall we went on a double-date with his friend Todd--"

"--Whom I'd matched with on Bumpkin," David interjected.

"Oh, okay," Patrick nodded.

"No, it gets better," Anna laughed.

"Or worse," David muttered.

"So our dates excused themselves to the bar to get us drinks, but they were gone for a long time," she continued.

"So I went to go check on them--"

"And he found _my_ boyfriend giving _his_ date head in the bathroom!"

"Oh my god!" Patrick exclaimed.

"But then never saw me," he continued.

"So we ordered the most expensive thing on the menu to-go and left them with the bill!" The two of them erupted into a fit of giggles.

"Worst part was that poor Anna here had to drive me all the way back to Schitt's Creek."

"No, the worse part was having Stephen come by my apartment and try to 'explain.' Like, I don't care what you have to say!"

"And _that's_ why I deleted Bumpkin," David declared.

"You know, all in all, that was kind of a fun night. We should hang out again some time."

David smiled. "I'd like that."

"I have to run, but get my number from Patrick and text me some time." She gave Patrick a peck on the cheek and waved at David as she left.

"Wow," Patrick said after a beat.

"Yeah, I tend to bring out the best in people," he muttered. Patrick just stared at him with a strange intensity for a moment too long, then blinked and shook his head.

"Here," he said, holding out the paper cup he'd been holding. "We stopped by the coffee shop and I grabbed you something."

"Uh, no thanks?" He pushed the cup back. "I'm not really a 'plain coffee' drinker."

"Oh, no! This is, uh, this is actually a macchiato." He looked embarrassed. David cocked an eyebrow and carefully took a sip. It was perfect, the skim, the sweeteners, the cocoa powder…

"How do you know my coffee order?" He all but whispered.

"You told it to me last week," he shrugged.

"And you remember it? You _literally_ brought me the wrong drink." David peered at him.

"Well, it's a pretty snobby order. I kind of wanted to see what you'd do if I….got it wrong."

"On purpose," David finished. Patrick nodded

"Yeah, you reacted in the way I thought you might. Maybe less so, it was sort-of anticlimactic."

"So you asked me if I wanted something, the _deliberately_ denied me, just to see how I'd react?"

"Pretty much," Patrick stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Unbelievable," David muttered, taking another sip and walking away.

-+-+-+-

Thursday mornings always come earlier than any other mornings. Especially with a standing "Weed and Waffle Wednesday" date with Stevie every week. David decided to splurge for an extra shot of espresso from Twyla this morning, and considered getting Patrick a tea (you know, because he got the macchiato the other day), but decided against it. Didn’t want to seem too… whatever. Which was probably for the best because he was alone again when he opened the store. Well, not for long.

“David!” Anna’s voice was very chipper for half-past 10 in the morning. He was almost upset until he was affronted with the warm scent of sugar and cinnamon. He was practically lifted up by the nose like a hungry cartoon character. “I brought you some treats!” she chimed, setting the square bakery box on the counter.

“Cinnamon rolls?” He drooled, opening the lid.

“Yeah, fresh from the oven!”

“Omigod,” he sighed, the pastry literally melting in his mouth. “You are my new favorite person.”

“Well thanks, David!” Anna beamed. “I should probably tell you that I didn’t make these, though. Ivan did.”

“Ivan? The guy who takes muffins to the Cafe?”

“Yeah, he’s a semi-professional baker. He uses my kitchen a few times a week. Apparently he’s planning on opening a bagel business?” She shrugged, and reached in the box to pull off a piece of roll to pop in her mouth. David would have slapped her hand away if she wasn’t the one to bring it in in the first place.

“Why does he bake at your house?” He asked, mouth full of another bite. Anna laughed.

“Not my house, my _kitchen._ Did Patrick not tell you? I own a commercial kitchen, which local caterers and small-batch bakers can rent out. Ivan comes by a few mornings a week.” Patrick did _not_ mention Anna’s job. In fact, he didn’t mention Anna at all after she left yesterday.

“Do I hear my ears burning?” Patrick stood at the foot of the apartment stairs. He strutted over and reached into the box to pull out a cinnamon roll. This time David did not hesitate to smack his hand, which he promptly withdrew, grinning, and licked some icing from his thumb. He maintained eye contact with David, and it was the one of hottest things he’d ever seen. Nope! Nope. No. Not hot. Nothing about Patrick was hot. Except maybe his ass in those jeans.

He shook the image out of his head just in time to see Anna kiss Patrick on the cheek. “Ready to go?” she asked, and he held out his arm for her.

“Let’s get to it!” he agreed.

“Bye, David!” she called as they left on another lunch date.

-+-+-+-

A few hours, and many crates of albums organized, later, Patrick strolled into the store.

“Hey, David, you hungry?”

“Always,” he replied quickly. “I’ve barely eaten today.”

Patrick walked up and peaked in the box Anna had left. “Looks like there’s three and a half cinnamon rolls missing,” he teased.

“Wendy came by and took some,” David supplied.

“No she didn’t.”

“No she didn’t,” he admitted. “What do you want?”

Patrick laughed. “I’m starving, and was going to pick someone up on the way back but realized that I didn’t have your number to ask if you wanted anything?”

“Okay?” Should they even have each other’s numbers? What was the protocol for not-technically-coworkers?

“Okay, so… do you want some lunch? There’s a great little Chinese place up the road that makes the best meat buns.”

“Oooh, I love a good meat bun!” _Fuck._ He grimaced as his face started to burn. “I, uh, I meant--” he glanced up at Patrick, who was grinning like the fuckng Cheshire Cat.

“So one order of the meat buns, got it.” David was too embarrassed to give him a dirty look.

“And General Tso’s with rice and some spring rolls and crab rangoons.”

"Anything else?" He teased.

"No thank you." Patrick nodded and pulled out his phone, stepping into the office. He came out a minute later and tossed his phone on the counter in front of David.

"Might as well put your number in," he said casually, "to avoid any more mishaps."

"Was this a mishap?" David asked, taking the phone and typing out a message to himself, so they'd both have the other's numbers.

"It was a close one." Patrick snatched his phone back from David and walked out the door, returning 20 minutes later heavy with take-out bags.

"How much do I owe you?" David asked, taking one of the bags and emptying it onto the counter.

"Don't worry about it," Patrick waved, digging out chopsticks. "You can get it next time." He smiled. Next time?

"Wait, didn't you eat with Anna?"

Patrick frowned into his lo mein. "Anna? No, not today. Just went over some business stuff."

"Ah, yes, of course," David needled. " _Business stuff._ "

"What exactly are you insinuating, David?" Patrick cocked an eyebrow.

"You two seemed _pretty_ cozy walking out of here." Patrick just chuckled, like it was a joke.

"Anna and I are friends. We met in high school, and sure, we went to London together, but that's all."

"International trips with 'just friends'? You sound like me."

"Would we call London international?"

"And _now_ you sound like Alexis. 'They speak English, _Day-vid_ , it's practically the same country!’'' Patrick laughed out loud.

“You’re good at that!”

“Obviously, I perfected my Alexis impersonation years ago.”

-+-+-+-

David was bringing the first box of 90s albums to the counter to organize when a delivery woman walked in the front door.

“Delivery for David Rose?” She read from her clipboard.

“Yes! Yes. That’s me. I’m David Rose.”

“Signature?” He snatched the paper and scribbled his name across the bottom.

“I’ve got about six big boxes,” she told him. “Where do you want them?”

“Um, right here is fine!” He was feeling giddy. She returned with a rolling cart loaded with 4 tall, thin boxes, then another trip came with two shorter, wider crates.

After she left, David got right to work looking for a knife of some sort to open the boxes. Where does one find a blade in a music retail store? He ended up digging a nail file from his bag to break the tape, always a MacGyver.

He dumped the first of the tall boxes out onto the floor-- one large, black wooden tabletop, four slender legs, and a large bag full of hardware. Okay, the website said _nothing_ about having to assemble these things. He picked up the small booklet that slipped out, with 6-point font and ten different languages. This was not going to work.

[David Rose]  
Do you have tools for assembling furniture?

[Stevie Budd]  
ya who needs it?

[David Rose]  
Me, obviously.

[Stevie Budd]  
ill drop it off at mutts

[David Rose]  
Very funny.

[Stevie Budd]  
u need the regular tool box or the furniture tool box

[David Rose]  
Both.

When Stevie came by to pick him up, David was dragging the last of the boxes to the storage room.

"Damn, it's like Mr. Universe in here," she whistled.

"You think you're funny," he grunted, "but I was a body oiler one season and let me tell you, those guys are _not_ as strong as they look."

"Well neither are you, so."

He returned to the counter panting and glaring. "Thanks so much for your help," he grumbled. "Did you bring the tools?"

She responded by dropping a large metal toolbox on the counter with a clank. "My best tools for my favorite tool," she grinned. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, one sec." He carried the rusty box to the storage room with the crates, and stuck his head in Wendy's office to let her know he was leaving, and took one last look around the store.

"Waiting for someone?"

"What? No. Just… checking."

"For Patrick?"

David's head snapped around to glower at her. " _No_ ," he hissed. But that was a lie. He'd gone upstairs after lunch and hadn't been down since. Not that it mattered.

-+-+-+-

Friday afternoon came with an air of anticipation, and David was actually _excited_ to get to work and see his vision come to life. What he didn’t expect was to walk in to find all of the tables and shelves completely assembled.

“Um, wow,” he said, admiring all of the newly-built furniture. “What is all of this?”

“Oh, I just put some of the tables together,” Patrick muttered, like he was saying he brought in the newspaper.

" _Some?_ You did all of it!" Patrick just shrugged. “Wow, this…” David ran his hand over a table, feeling it’s sturdiness and balance. It was perfect. “Thank you,” he said quietly, looking up at Patrick.

“Well, you know,” he replied, running his hand over the back of his neck. “Anything to help Aunt Wendy and the store.”

“Right.” Of course. “Aunt Wendy and the store.” Patrick nodded, and started sifting through a box distractedly. "Should we start the displays?"

Patrick looked up, seemingly happy to have a subject change.

"Absolutely," he pointed at one if the tables. "What goes here?"

The two of them started bringing the albums to the table, in the _correct_ form of organization, and alphabetized the genre. Wendy passed through to ooh and aah at the stands, before running to her office to catch the ringing phone.

“So I still can’t wrap my head around the whole _Aunt_ Wendy thing," David said at last. "How are you two related?"

"Okay, to be fair, she isn't _really_ my aunt," he laughed. "Anymore." He must have read David's face and explained. "She was married to my Uncle Jeff for a few years when I was in high school. It didn't last long, but we always got on well. She kept in touch with my mom, and let me keep coming every summer."

"Okay, _that_ I can believe,” David laughed. “Kind of. Why do you _choose_ to spend every summer in Elmdale?”

Patrick paused. “I guess I just always liked being here. The small-town feel, everyone is nice to each other, you can just be yourself. I also liked having it be my own. My parents never came, my friends from school weren’t here, I could just… be myself. Without anyone else’s influence.”

“Didn’t you bring your girlfriend once?” He shouldn’t remember that.

“Yeah, Rachel, my second summer here,” he looked down, inspecting a CD absently. “I thought it’d be fun to have her here, meet my local friends… but once she was here I realized how much I didn’t like having her in this life. We broke up the day she went home. Which sounds super shitty but I was seventeen, so.” He shrugged.

“Well, I can see the merits of having a clean slate,” David assured. He didn’t need to go into further detail. He couldn’t. "This place is _very_ from New York."

Patrick laughed. "I'll bet." He looked up at David and smiled tenderly. "And I realized that there really wasn't 'this life' versus 'that life,' it was just letting me be myself, instead of being who I thought everyone wanted me to be."

"Who did you think they wanted you to be?" David asked quietly. They were shoulder to shoulder, standing completely still, with uninterrupted eye contact.

"Oh, you know," he said passively. "Star of the baseball team, valedictorian, homecoming king…"

"And you just wanted to be the cool-guy rock star," David finished.

"Something like that," Patrick smiled, looking back to the CDs.

"Oh! David! Patrick!" Wendy rushed out of her office waving her hands. "I've got some great news!" David stared at her expectantly. "Apparently there is a Music Barn in Australia, and they are going to pay _me_ to use their name here! Can you believe it?!"

"There's another store called Music Barn?" David sighed. "No."

"No, it's an entire chain," she explained. "They're expanding into North America, and they're going to pay me _ten thousand dollars_ to cover the cost of renaming the store."

"Wait," Patrick interjected, "so they're buying the name from you?"

"Well, it's more of a gesture, actually. Apparently I have been using the name without their permission."

"Okay, so this company is giving you ten thousand dollars as a _gesture_?" He asked.

"And to think I almost this place "The Music Roost."

David spoke up. "Something seems really sketchy about this, and I'm not just saying that because I have a hard time with Australians. A lot of drunks."

"Yeah, I have to agree with David. I mean, not about Australians, I actually don't have a problem them."

"It's already happening," Wendy told them. "they're coming in next week, bringing the paperwork…" she gestured, as if that were all she needed to say.

"As your _Brand Manager,_ I feel like I need to be at that meeting," David told her.

"I don't know…"

"Please let me talk to a few people before you decide," he continued. "If there's one thing I've learned from The Good Wife is never accept a first offer."

"I have to agree with David on this one," Patrick added. "I think you should get a second opinion."

"Well you have until Tuesday," Wendy told them. "Their representative will be here at two."

-+-+-+-

"David? Did you hear me?"

It had been less than an hour since Wendy's big news and David could not focus on anything else. It seemed so ambiguous and deceitful, there _had_ to be a catch.

He glanced up to see Patrick looking at him, his face a mix of concern and confusion.

"What? Oh, uh, no."

"I said that I was going to meet Twyla after her shift to go over a song for Open Mic," he repeated. "Do you want me to give you a lift into town?"

"Hmm? Um, okay, sure." He pulled out his phone. "Let me text her."

[David Rose]  
Patrick's gonna give me a ride home tonight.

[Stevie Budd]  
ill bet he gives u a great ride 😉

[David Rose]  
Fuck off, he's gonna hang with Twyla

[Stevie Budd]  
bummer for u

[David Rose]  
🖕

-+-+-+-

Patrick's car was a sensible Honda sedan, clean and tidy inside and out. David eyed it suspiciously.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I guess I was expecting…"

"Something flashier?" Patrick suggested, putting his guitar case and Stevie's toolbox in the back seat.

"A tour van," David corrected.

"You thought I drove a _tour van_?"

"I don't know!" He shouted, louder than he intended to. Patrick chuckled.

"Just get in the car, David."

When he turned the key over, the cab filled with music. Patrick moved quickly to turn down the volume, but not before David shouted "What the fuck?!"

"Oops, sorry. I tend to get _in the zone_ while driving."

"And what zone is this?" He motioned to the radio.

"The Mountain Goats," Patrick replied absently, watching traffic on the cross-street.

"Well it's loud."

Patrick just nodded and tapped the steering wheel to the drum beat.

"So where do you live?" He asked casually as they passed the atrocious town sign.

"Oh, just drop me at the Café, I'll walk."

"No, it's fine, where is it?"

"I don't want to be any trouble."

"David, it's really no trouble. I'm actually a little early."

"Um, okay. But…" he got very quiet. "Please don't make fun of me."

Patrick's eyebrows knitted together, and he glanced at David. "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "My family and I live at the motel."

"David," he said softly, his face melting. "I would _never_ make fun of someone's living situation." He looked back over to make eye contact. " _Especially_ yours."

"Why not?" He grumbled, "you make fun of everything else about me."

"I don't make fun of you!" Wow, he had the audacity to actually think that?

"Um, _yes_ you do. Literally _every_ day."

Patrick started to laugh. "I _tease_ you every day, but I don't make fun of you."

"The difference being?!"

"The difference is the intention, David. I like you. I _respect_ you. I just…also like to push your buttons." David glared at him, trying to kill him with daggers. Patrick just laughed harder. "You get so riled up! Like now! You make the cutest faces."

" _All_ my faces are cute!" He snapped, unable to come up with anything else to say.

"Okay, true," Patrick admitted. " _all_ your faces are cute."

He huffed again. He teases someone because he _likes_ them? What kind of kindergarten bullshit is that?

"Where should I drop you?" He asked, pulling into the motel parking lot.

"Oh, uh, room 7," David said, as Alexis stepped out of the door in her running gear.

"Oh my god _hi,_ Patrick!" She shouted as the car pulled to a stop. David got out quickly, hoping to get this conversation over as soon as possible. "Aw, so nice of you to give our little David here a ride!" She reached out to boop his nose, but he smacked her hand away.

"Stop!"

"Nice to see you again, Alexis," Patrick waved. She put in her headphones and started jogging in place, reaching to touch David's nose once more before running past him.

"I'm going to use your towel to clean the bathtub!" He snarled at her, and she flipped him off as she continued towards the road.

"You two are so sweet to each other," Patrick laughed. David just walked into his room and slammed the door.

It wasn't until after the car pulled away that he realized the tools were still in the back seat.

 _Fuck_.


End file.
